


Third Wheel

by TheMadKatter13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempted Murder, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Infidelity, John/Mary reference only, M/M, Mary!POV, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, One-Sided Relationship, Possessive!Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, bottom!John, delusional!Mary, possessive!Mary, top!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 22:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMadKatter13/pseuds/TheMadKatter13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had taken months and months of hard work, patience, care, but at last, the quiet, untalkative John Watson was hers. And then Sherlock Holmes returned from the dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Wheel

**Author's Note:**

> To be clear, I love Mary's character. I was simply inspired by a verse in Fall Out Boy's "Sugar, We're Going Down" song. Also, this was written before S3 came out so this may be slightly OOC Mary.

 

  
_Oh don't mind me I'm watching you two from the closet_  
_Wishing to be the friction in your jeans_  
_Isn't it messed up how I'm just dying to be him_  
_I'm just a notch in your bedpost._  
_-Fall Out Boy~Sugar, We’re Going Down_

John Watson had been an absolute wreck when she found him. Oh, he had been put together quite well, clothes wrinkle-free and coordinated, demeanor polite, steady job. But he limped heavily with the assistance of a cane, his left hand trembled subtly and consistently, and he was so distant to the point of being entirely forgetful. But she was interested in him. He was handsome, and he was a lot more polite than most of the men she encountered round London these days. She found his blog, she found out all about his adventures with Sherlock Holmes, and then she found out about the suicide some months prior. She pestered after him day after day, finally convincing him into first one date, then another and then another, striving to make him smile, really smile. Finally he seemed to open up, his smiles seeming a bit more natural and week by week she encouraged him into her flat. It had taken months and months of hard work, patience, care, but at last, the quiet, untalkative John Watson was hers.

And then Sherlock Holmes returned from the dead. Knocked on their door during tea. He struck an imposing silhouette on her doorstep. “Hello, John,” was all he said, shifting, the light falling on his face. He looked sick, cheeks gaunt, skin pale, dark bags under his eyes. He looked as if he hadn’t seen the sun or ate or slept in weeks. John had seemed frozen, face deathly white as he stared. Quite suddenly, but quiet gently, he closed the door and turned to the guest room without a word, walking in a hobble worse than when she met him. She could hear the lock on the guest room door slide click and John didn’t emerge until the next morning.

John was so very angry for a while, but it was a quiet anger, manifested in the expression of his eyes, the turn of his lips, the clench of his jaw, and the squeezing of fists. And sadness, manifested in a quietness abnormal for even him and night terrors that woke them both in the middle of the night, John sweating and panting, cheeks glistening from tears in the pale glow from the street lamps. He would close himself into her-- _their_ \--office, or limp out the door without a word, for hours at a time. And Sherlock, Sherlock was always there, silent, waiting in the background. She caught glimpses of him at times, his great coat flapping around his calves as he lingered at building corners and in the shadows of doorways when Mary finally convinced John on an outing with her. John’s mobile went off at all hours and while he never read them, the little alert number slowly creeping higher as the days passed, he never deleted them either. One day, while he was in the shower (oh the showers he took--so long and hot that steam would creep out from under the locked door and would billow out from inside when he finally emerged, the heat lingering for hours after), she went through the messages sitting unread and waiting for the attention of a man who seemed just as likely to never give it. The first one was dated exactly one month after the reappearance of the detective.

_6 September 2014_  
_14: 26 Mrs Hudson has kept Baker Street as it was left. -Sh_  
_14:27 Mycroft’s doing I suppose. -SH_  
_17:56 Mrs Hudson has forgiven Mr Chatterjee. -SH_  
_18:02 It seems as if he has acquired another wife in Cardiff. -SH_  
_18:15 It is kinder not to tell her, yes?. -SH_

_8 September 2014_  
_10:23 Bored. -SH_

_11 September 2014_  
_02:33 It seems we have new neighbors. They called NSY on me whilst I was practicing the new composition. -SH_  
_03:10 Lestrade was quite displeased to see me. Unsure if it is because I took so long to tell him or because he will be forced to clean up after ‘my shenanigans’ once again. -SH_  
_09:16 I had forgotten the feeling of building calluses. -SH_

_18 September 2014_  
_10:12 Locked room murder. Three dead. 91 Dean St. -SH_  
_10: 13 Come at once if convenient. -SH_  
_10: 13 If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH_  
_10:28 Sgt Donovan and Anderson. It appears I have deleted them. -SH_  
_10:31 They were displeased by my deductions on their relationship. Quite obvious really with the state of her knees and that she is wearing his deodorant. -SH_  
_10:32 They are inquiring into your health and I do not know if what I am telling them is true. -SH_  
_10: 37 Anderson is impossible to work with. No wonder NSY never gets any work done. His IQ must be infectious. -SH_  
_10:38 I require a competent assistant. -SH_  
_11:02 Dull. It was the husband’s twin. Trap door in attic floor drops victim through tube to first floor. Obvious. -SH_

_19 September 2014_  
_12:00 We are out of anything edible and drinkable. -SH_

_22 September 2014_  
_12:00 Mycroft has sent provisions. -SH_

_25 September 2014_  
_17:02 We no longer have new neighbors. It seems they grew tired of the violin. -SH_

_29 September 2014_  
_01:13 I have discovered different brands of tin foil create varying shades of sparks in the microwave. -SH_  
_02:13 The fire extinguisher was empty. The firemen were as displeased to see me as Lestrade. -SH_  
_02:15 We need a new microwave. -SH_

_2 October 2014_  
_13:28 I have successfully created a new acid. -SH_  
_13: 43 The kitchen table needs replacing again. -SH_  
_13:48 If Mrs Hudson does not clean the newspapers from the floor she will not notice the hole in her tile. -SH_

Mary blinked at the messages. He was a mad man! John was right to stay away from him! And then a new message came in.

_9 October 2014_  
_06:45 It has been 62 days, 12 hours, and 42 minutes. Please allow me to explain, John. -SH_

Her eyes widened. Unacceptable. John wasn’t happy with the detective's return and he wouldn’t be happy after meeting him. She could only envision him getting worse. She remembered the first night she had finally succeeded in getting him into her bed. She had woken in the middle of the night to find John sitting at the end of the bed, staring at a gun in his hands. The moon had made his scar shine but it was the contemplative expression on his face that held her attention. She didn’t remember falling asleep again that night but when she woke the next morning, John had gone and his side of the bed had been freezing. John was hers.

She erased every single message and, for safety, erased his Deleted box too. She put the mobile back where she found it and returned to the kitchen to finish cooking breakfast. John emerged 20 minutes later, fully dressed, the only exposed skin to her eyes being his head and hands, all of it pink. He picked up his mobile, glancing at it as he went to put it in his pocket before stopping and opening it. He didn’t say a word, his expression not changing as Mary carefully continued her actions, feigning obliviousness. After that, his mobile never left his side.

Three days later, when she got home from work, there was an envelope on the floor right inside their door addressed to John.

_65 days, 2 hours, 17 minutes. Please allow me to explain._  
_-SH_

She burned it in the kitchen sink.

A week later, when John came home from work, he went straight to their room without a word of greeting or an act of affection as was normal for him. But today, he also brought a large envelope that was dropped on the table as he hobbled by. When he emerged from the bedroom, it was in a pair of jeans and an oatmeal-coloured jumper she had never seen before. Still as silent as the grave, he slipped his coat back on and went back out the door. From the window she watched him flag down a cab before she gave into her curiosity and opened the envelope. There was only one thing inside. A photo. A photo of John standing at a grave, head bowed and face covered by one of his hands. It looked like he had been crying. Mary knew immediately whose gravestone it was. She flipped the photo over and found another note on the back.

_You asked me for a miracle. It took 3 years, 1 month, 18 days, 6 hours, 54 minutes, 18 seconds to give it to you. Please allow me to explain._  
_-SH_

Mary had never ran from her flat so fast in her life. Luck was on her side that an empty cab was already driving her way when she got to the kerb. She flung herself inside and breathlessly demanded “221B Baker Street, and hurry!” It was a nail-biting 22 minute ride and the cabbie was less than happy when she flung a wad of bills at him but she ignored him, sprinting the few short meters to the the door and knocking ferociously. A kindly, elderly woman in a purple dress answered the door.

“How can I help you, dear?”

“John. I’m looking for John?” Somehow it came out breathless but the woman understood just the same.

“I’m afraid he may be unavailable for a short bit. Would you like to come inside and wait? I’ve just put on the kettle.” Before she could answer, there was a large crash from behind the door marked with a ‘B’ at the top of the stairs at her left.

“THREE FUCKING YEARS, SHERLOCK! THREE YEARS YOU LET ME THINK YOU WERE DEAD!” Mary had never heard John raise his voice before, much less the roar she was hearing now. It rattled her.

“THEY WERE GOING TO KILL YOU JOHN, WHAT ELSE COULD I DO?” The answering shout had the landly at her side tutting and shaking her head.

“YOU COULD HAVE TAKEN ME WITH YOU!”

“Those two boys. They’ll learn one day. They just need to have their little domestic and then it’ll all work out.” A whistle from inside the open door at ground level on their right had the woman tottering back off, leaving Mary to stare at the door of 221B anxiously. Minutes passed and the woman was just approaching her side again when the door flew open and John emerged before slamming the door closed, stomping his way down the stairs. His face was red, the fist not grasping his cane clenching rhythmically, a muscle in his jaw jumping with the force with which he clenched his teeth. He didn’t seem to be surprised to see Mary standing at the foot of the staircase, merely grabbed her arm in a harsh grip on his way passed, yanking her with him out the front door. As they got in a cab, she looked up to the windows on the second floor, a dark silhouette standing between the parted curtains.

John didn’t speak for three days. Then one night as they sat in their respective chairs, John’s phone went off. This one he read. This one he obeyed. He was out the door in seconds, still not speaking. She didn’t see him until late the next morning when he walked in with a smile on his face she had never seen before. It was a jab to the heart to realize that THAT was his real smile. The ones she had thought were real were just better fake ones than he normally used. And it was Sherlock who had brought it out, not her. Over the next few weeks, the same thing would happen. They would be sitting at home when John’s phone would ding and he would leave without a word, each time coming back with a bigger smile and an increased gleam in his eyes.

She was losing him. Losing him to another man. They hardly spoke anymore but it was more that when Mary tried to initiate conversation, John would give short, forced answers, like he didn’t wish to speak at all but was too polite not to. They hadn’t had sex since Sherlock had come back either. Not that they had had a lot before he’d shown up, once a month then if she was lucky, but it had been over three months now. John did not show any interest in her. Not once did he try to help her.

Four months after Sherlock’s return, Mary got home late and without taking off her shoes or coat, collapsed face first on the sofa, dropping her bags at her side, and promptly passed out. The door banging open woke her up and the digital clock from the cable box told her it was past midnight.

“Sherlock, be quiet! Mary will be asleep.”

“Don’t be an idiot, John, she’s not here. Shoes, coat, scarf, gloves, purse, gone. Besides, I was not the one to forget my gun when we were going to chase down a murderer.”

“I’m still amazed at this one, Sherlock. You’ve really outdone yourself, I think. Deducing a serial killer from the shoe- and finger-prints at the scene. Amazing. Just as brilliant as ever and-- Sherlock? What’s that look for?” There was a muffled thump followed by something that sounded like muffled words but Mary couldn’t be sure. She was struck dumb by how happy, how alive her John sounded. He had never been like this with her. Not even when he was at his best. But she could ignore that because even if he wasn’t enthusiastic, he was still hers, heart and body. Right? She scooted up the sofa and peeked around the back, her heart stopping at the sight that greeted her.

Sherlock had shoved John, her John, against the wall of the front hallway, kissing him with a ferocity one doesn’t see outside the movies, one arm curled tight around John’s waist and the other tangled in the same blonde-gold hair she liked to run her fingers through at night when he was sleeping, keeping John’s mouth to his. And on John’s part, he seemed to be giving as good as he got, his arms identical to the taller man’s but just as suddenly he broke away.

“Sherlock! Stop! What the hell is wrong with you?! What kind of game do you think you’re playing? Wait, don’t tell me. That was an ‘ _experiment_ ’. Well, guess what Mr I’m-Married-To-My-Work, if you want to perform some strange sexual experiment, you can go find some stranger in the street you haven’t pissed off and do it with them. I won’t be part of it!”

The detective shrunk back and if Mary didn’t know better, she would have said the grown man was pouting. “Why not?”

“‘Why not?’! ‘Why not?’! Sherlock! I have a girlfriend! Mary! At whose flat we’re in now! I know you understand infidelity. It’s such a frequent cause for the murders you love.” John looked tired now. The same kind of tired she was used to seeing from before the tall man’s return to his life. Should she interrupt? John was shooting him down and with what she had heard and read of Sherlock, the man was far from interested in sex. Didn’t have any friends either. And John... John was straight. She had nothing to worry about. Right?

“You call her a ‘girlfriend’ John but you haven’t had sex with her since I’ve come back. In fact, over the course of your 30 month relationship, you’ve had intercourse with her exactly that number of times.” John looked as startled as Mary felt. Thirty? Was that really it? The more she thought about it, the more right it seemed. Weren’t men supposed to be always trying to get a leg over, especially in the first year of the relationship? That’s how it was for all her girlfriends, that's how it had been with every boyfriend she’d ever had before. But not John. John...he tried in bed, always made sure she was taken care of but... Her heart stuttered. He had never initiated. Not once, she realized. Not a hug, not a kiss, not moving in together, not sleeping in together. In fact, John always went to bed after she did, didn’t he? Didn’t try cuddling with her. Ever. Not once. It was always her. Every. Single. Time.

“And how do you _possibly_ know that?” John sounded more exasperated than annoyed.

“Mycroft. I made him put 24/7 surveillance on you and leave it at a drop. I retrieved them as often as I could, watched them every spare moment.” Mary stared at him. John stared at him. Sherlock turned his back and began to pace.

“You put _surveillance_ on me?!” Outrage. Another emotion she had never heard or seen John express. When she had gotten John, it was like he was a black and white photograph that required Mary’s help to colour it back in, a slow, painstaking process she hadn't gotten far in. But then Sherlock returned and it took a little bit, but the change was instantaneous, like a light coming back on, and suddenly John was all colour. But only with him. Always with him. There was a concept, the beginning of an idea, skittering in the back recesses of her mind. Only a feeling. But the longer this interaction went on, the more time John, her John, spent with Sherlock (his Sherlock), the stronger this feeling got when all she wanted was for it to die. For this bright, _alive_ John to take notice of her.

“Of course,” Sherlock scoffed. “I needed to make sure all the effort I was putting into ridding the world of your assassins and of Moriarty’s operation weren’t a total waste. As I was saying. Thirty times, John. You had proportionately more intercourse with the women you...’dated’ when we were flatmates. And please, correct me if I’m wrong, but is there not some protocol against erasing text messages from friends and burning letters from friends?” Mary’s heart stopped entirely. How did he know _that_? Did he have her flat under surveillance too?

“What the hell are you on about?” John rubbed his brow now, appearing utterly exhausted.

“Mary. You are mad enough at me to not read my messages, but you have never erased them. There wasn’t a single one in your phone from before you came back to Baker Street yet there was a history of older messages from other senders present. Which means they were erased. But by whom? Not by you. You never let anyone else use your phone. Even if it were left lying around, that person would need motive to erase the messages, and you would only leave it laying around with someone you trusted. Conclusion: you left your phone around here and Mary erased the messages. I suspected something of the sort would happen and when you did not respond, I left a note on the floor of your entryway, exactly where you could see it after you had stepped in. As I so rarely do anything other than text, chances were you would read a message I’d actually taken the time to write. You failed to respond to that as well. More than failing to respond to the message, you failed to give any indication you had received a message at all. You are many, many things, John, but a good actor is not one of them. So you did not receive the message. Who else had access to the message? Mary. But she couldn’t just bin it on the off chance you might notice the envelope addressed to you or recognize my writing on the paper. Conclusion: she burned it. My conclusions of interception were proven correct when I sent a note to your office where there was no chance of interception on her part and you came home to me that same evening. I’ve admitted it before and will again. Girlfriends are not my area but correct me if that is not against protocol.”

John was silent for a long moment, mouth open and eyes wide. “Brilliant. You absolutely brilliant, daft git.” The expression on his face was one of absolute adoration. The same kind of look Mary wished she would direct his way. But the longer this...whatever this was went on, the less likely it seemed. The longer he stayed around Sherlock Holmes, the faster her John Watson slipped from her fingers. Suddenly John propped one hand on his hip and dropped his head into the other, rubbing at his temples. “And yeah, that would be against...’girlfriend protocol’. Even so, what does any of that have to do with you surveilling me or how many times I’ve gotten a leg over? She was there when you weren’t. When I thought you were dead. You can’t rip apart my relationship with Mary just because you want to.”

“Relationship!” the tall man scoffed, stepping back. Mary shrunk back but kept her eyes on the scene unfolding before her. She didn’t think she was breathing or blinking and her heart was in her throat. “You are miserable, John. Your limp is worse than the first time I cured it, as is your hand. You never relax your shoulders, you never go to the pub, you never meet your friends. You’re pretending to be happy and you’re doing a shoddy job at that. And her. _Mary_.” She had never heard her name declared with such spite. A cold shiver rolled down her spine. “She deleted the messages I sent you and burned the first note I left for you. Classic behaviours of jealousy. She’s afraid that I’ll steal you from her.”

John sighed, scrubbing his face with both hands now. “It’s not like you can steal what was already yours in the first place,” he muttered and then immediately froze. So did Mary. So did Sherlock. The entire room went stock still and it felt like the world outside their windows did the same, waiting with bated breath for whatever was going to happen next.

Slowly, Sherlock straightened and walked slowly towards John, crowding him against the wall, the move explicitly predatory.

“While I was gone, chasing down the assassins set on you and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, deconstructing every chain of Moriarty’s web, I imagined you there at my side. No matter what I was doing, you were always there. When my mind refused to make a connection, you were there, my conductor of light, keeping me from the cocaine that I knew would clear my mind. Because you, my doctor, I knew you would not approve. I knew I had to remain clean if I were to ever come home to you. But you were also there when we succeeded. You were there when we finally eliminated all direct threats to your safety, only indirect branches remained. You were there when I finally felt it safe to inform you of my feelings. You responded quite favourably.”

“But I wasn’t there, Sherlock. That wasn’t me.”

“I am quite aware, John. And returning only made it more clear with your show of a relationship with Ms Morstan. And because it was not really you there, and because it appears you doubt my intentions, I will repeat myself: I love you, John Watson.” Mary’s breath caught in her throat. The same appeared to be true for John who froze, staring up at the taller man, mouth opened and eyes wide.

“I’m...sorry...you... what?” Words entirely seemed to escape him. In that moment, John Watson was at his most vulnerable, and Sherlock seemed to be the sort with no qualms about taking advantage. He swooped in again, but this time, the kiss appeared slow and gentle rather than an attack. Long fingers tracing over a wrinkled brow and along a thick neck, lips slow against lips, patient even as an arm wound around her John’s waist, the occupied hand finally moving into the blonde-gold hair she loved so much. The break apart was slow, lingering, like neither wanted to stop.

“I believe the phrase is ‘actions speak louder than words’, yes?” John looked dazed as he nodded. “If that is the case, if you do not believe my words, which I shall tell you as often as you wish to hear them, then I shall show you how I feel about you, how you make me feel. Do you understand.”

John’s response was breathless. “Yes, Sherlock.”

“Good. Now, unless popular media is entirely misleading in such matters, I believe such declarations require either a rejection or an acceptance on your part.”

“Oh Sherlock. Do you think I would have killed someone for just anyone?" John laughed but it sounded sad. "I think I loved you before I even knew I was in love with you but it’s not like your reception of Molly’s or even Irene’s attention gave me much hope.” John? Her John? Gay? In love with his ex-flatmate? No. No, this couldn’t be happening.

“Molly? Irene?" A scoff. "John, they could never be to me what you are. Molly is important yes, and I admit the Woman held my attention, but for only for the time it took to figure her out. You, my John, I have spent over four years trying to understand. I could spend every moment until death trying to understand you and I will likely never succeed.” John laughed again, this time the sound light, lighter than anything she had ever heard from him. And he was blushing. Actually blushing. Cheeks flushed, eyes bright like he was about to cry. He was beautiful. And he was in someone else’s arms.

“Well, you certainly know how to make a bloke feel important. And Sherlock, that’s all well and good but Mar--mmfph!” Sherlock hadn’t even let him finish speaking before surging forward, devouring the same mouth she herself tried to give and get kiss after kiss from with little successful. But this man, this tall, dark-haired, light-eyed man, had only to use a few pretty, meaningless words to turn John from her. To guilt-trip him into some sick relationship. Unacceptable. Wholly unacceptable. John was _hers_.

“You said it yourself, John. You are mine. And I intend to show you,” the detective growled, moving down the same strong tan jawline she herself loved to nibble on. But he didn’t stop there. Right to the jugular he went, his lips making a vulgar sound as he vandalized _her_ boyfriend’s neck with his own mark. Even worse, John’s body betrayed him and he moaned aloud, a sound she had never heard from him. What was it about Sherlock Holmes that had him eliciting all these sounds and emotions and facial expressions from her beloved that she never had? One of them grunted and then those cursed pale fingers were wrapped around the very same thighs she loved to feel move and tense under her fingers and they were lifting them, urging them around Sherlock’s waist, pressing John against the wall. She was beyond flabberghasted that not only was this happening, but she was witnessing it and in her own home too.

Garments practically shed themselves as the two men tottered their way to the bedroom she shared with John, looking for all intents and purposes like they were going to shag on their bed. Unacceptable. She couldn’t feel her heart beating in her chest anymore as she got off the sofa and walked to the den, like where it once existed was a hole. Just the same she could neither feel her fingers nor her toes or the way her hair fell over her shoulder when she bent to the safe she knew held John’s gun. He had showed her before how to load it, how to shoot it, how to use it to kill intruders. And so that's what she would use it for. The motions of her hands were automatic as she loaded it and prepared it to shoot. He had to die. John wasn’t allowed to leave her. It was her or no one.

They hadn’t even bothered to close the bedroom door. Clothes were strewn everywhere and the interloper was pressing down and into her John (“ _John, John, John, my John_ ” - “ _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sh’lock, my daft genius_ ”). She couldn’t decide what sight was worse: that of her John being penetrated by another man? Or that it was done bareback. Who knew what kind of diseases the drug addict would be subjecting her John to. The gun was already ready in her hand and she raised it, flicking off the safety exactly like John had shown her, pointing the muzzle at the pale back just two meters from her. Heart or head? Heart. He deserved to know what she felt like right now. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breeeaaaathe ooouuut and squeeze.

“Sherlock!” It happened so fast she didn’t quite know what was happening. A flurry of bedsheets, bodies tumbling, the bang of the gun (so loud had it been so loud at the shooting range?) going off in their small bedroom, and then there was John, sitting astride Sherlock. Hadn’t they been the reverse just seconds ago? And then time stopped as blood trickled from the hole in John’s right shoulder, a fresh mirror of the scar on his left.

“John?” Mary mumbled, staring at the bright red. When was the last time she saw human blood? Did periods or nose bleeds count? Why was there so much? Why was it coming from John in the first place? The sheets were being stained. Silly John. He should just get down and she would help him. “John, what happened? I don’t understand. I shot him. Why are you bleeding John?”

“JOHN!” roared a different voice. There was another flurry and then something large and white hit her in the face and she stumbled backwards, tripping on something on the floor, and slamming into the door. Something, someone, tackled her about the waist, someone large, heavy. The gun was pulled from her fingers but she barely felt it. Her insides felt cold, cold everywhere. Everything was so far away.

“Is John ok?” she heard herself ask. There was a click and her wrists were wreathed in cool metal. She tugged. They were stuck on something.

“John! John, what do I do? Think! I just need to think! Pressure. Pressure on the wound. Mycroft! John. John’s been shot I need-- Now is NOT the time, Mycroft! Thank you!”

Time passed in a blur and then there was flashing lights on the ceiling and voices around her. Sherlock’s stood out above them all, sounding shaky in her ears. Firm hands were lifting her shoving her moving her out the door and down the stairs into the back of a car. Somewhere along the way, a voice--Sherlock's?--hissed in her ear: “Pray to whatever god you believe in that he lives.” It wouldn’t breach the fog around her brain until much later when she was sitting across from an attractive older detective with silver hair and tired eyes.

“Please state your name for the record.”

“Mary Morstan.” Her voice sounded hollow in her own ears.

“How long have you been dating John Watson?”

“Two and a half years.” Just short of two and a half years alone with the man she loved. Before The Other came into their lives.

“And why did you shoot him?”

“I didn’t shoot him, I shot Sherlock,” she insisted. John was fiiine. Why did they keep saying it wrong? The man rubbed his face and said something that sounded suspiciously like ‘You’re not the first.’

“Regardless of who you shot at, John is the one in the hospital with another bullet hole.” She shook her head, not willing to believe his words. “Why did you pull the trigger?”

“John taught me how to use the gun for intruders. He was intruding. He was taking John from me. So I shot him.” The man across from her--had he given her his name?--frowned and pulled opened a manila folder in front of him she hadn’t noticed before. She leaned forward. There were pictures being shoved at her, pictures of John’s chest and shoulders but there was something wrong with his right one. “What is that?” she asked, pointing to the ugly red hole. She pointedly ignored the pale hand present in each of the pictures, fluttering just around or over the thing she was pointing at. The man’s frown deepened.

“That is a bullet wound in John Hamish Watson's right shoulder. It came from the gun you shot. Which I would be very interested in hearing where you got that gun from as well.” But she wasn’t quite listening after that. John? Shot? That wasn’t supposed to be right. It was supposed to be Sherlock. But no, John was leaving her. Was leaving her for Sherlock. Had let himself be fucked by Sherlock on the bed they shared. The same bed she had to wheedle and wheedle at John to get him to participate in sex. The same bed John willingly got fucked by Sherlock.

“John’s going to leave me for Sherlock. I couldn’t let that happen,” she muttered, her mind looping that one fact. The man, he must have been an inspector of some sort, gathered the photos back into the folder and closed it.

“I hate to break the news to you Ms Morstan, especially as you weren’t around when those two met the first time round, but it was always going to be Sherlock for John. And vice versa. As soon as they met, it was never going to be anyone else.” She shook her head in rejection of what he was saying but the words took over her mind as they took her away and locked her in a cell, her mind rebelling against the night she had had. It wasn’t until Sherlock Holmes stood in front of her cell in perfect health that it fully sunk in--she had shot John John had been shot she was the one that shot him John was shot John was shot JohnwasshotsheshotJohnWatson--and the fog lifted from her brain, leaving only a saddened desperation in its wake. She ran to the bars, grasping them tightly as she sobbed.

“John! John, is he ok?” She could hardly see through her tears. She didn’t know how her life had gone so wrong. Four months ago her life had been better than it had ever been, she had been happy with a good job, a good home, and a man she loved. Four months (one night) was all it took for her to lose everything.

“He will recover. I’ll admit, I had not anticipated you capable of this kind of reaction. I underestimated you.” Something about what he said, how he said it, stuck in her mind.

“‘Anticipated’?” she echoed. Dark eyes narrowed at her, his taller figure emboldened by the large coat seeming increasingly ominous.

“It was obvious you were home and sleeping on the sofa.”

“So that...all that...” The words, and the thought behind them, made her feel sick as they stuck in her throat. “That was all... an act? John knew...” That kind, polite John would do something like that to her. To anyone. Sherlock scoffed but didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes from her.

“Absolutely not. John tries to observe and he is better at it than the rest of you, but only when he tries. He was not aware you were home, much less that you were on the sofa. But John was mine the moment he walked back into Bart’s four years ago. He never was and never will be yours.” She released the bars and jumped back as if electrocuted. How much more of this torture would she have to take? “My only regret was that I could not make him aware of my feelings sooner. Regardless, though it was not an act, it was certainly a show I put on for your benefit that John was not aware he was participating in. Your sentimentality had to be derailed. Allowing you to see the proof of how John feels for me was the easiest. People are always the most truthful when they believe there is no one around to see or hear them. Like now. The only reason you are still alive is because John is, and whatever he may or may not have felt for you, he would not like to see you dead.” Yes, that did sound like her John. No, not ‘her’ John. _His John_. From the beginning, he had always been _his John_. She had just been an unwanted placeholder who had shoved herself into John’s life. And now she would be going to prison for attempted murder, of that she had no doubt. All this for someone who had never wanted her in the first place.

An ugly sob ripped from her throat. Sherlock watched dispassionately from the other side of the bars.

“Rest assured, should anything happen to John because of that wound, you will pay your dues for your transgressions.” And with that, he swirled and swished away, leaving her frozen and cold and alone in her cell, the tails of his coat scattering the remainders of her once-envied life to the winds.

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you thought, good or bad, in the Comments, and if bad, please be constructive so that I may better my writing! :3 Also, if you liked the story enough to want to promote/rec it on tumblr, instead of creating a new post, please reblog [my original post](http://themadkatter13fanfiction.tumblr.com/post/91723167893/third-wheel)! Thank you so much! You are, of course, also more than welcome to follow me on tumblr as well! :3 Tschüß~


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